Slave Labor vs. Life Insurance

Never inform your children you have life insurance.  They will find creative ways to do you in. 

My sweet son, Robby, visited me for two weeks while Doug was away working.  During this period he discovered I  had a life insurance policy.  He then declared he needed to help me with the many outside chores.  Robby referred to this as "slave labor."  But I know he was really trying to kill me to get to the life insurance.

Robby hopped on the zero turn radius riding lawn mower. "Be careful," I warned.  "Since the drought last summer the ground has become like a washboard."  The sweet son smiled and pulled his sun glasses down.  I trotted off to pull some weeds.  Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a blue streak.  Robby was zipping from one end of the property to the other.  His butt was bouncing so far off the seat, the motor was in danger of stalling.  I feared Robby would soar off as he whipped around the turns.  Then I saw him doing 360's in Doug's precious grass.  My heart felt weak.

Three hours later Robby was done mowing the lawn.  (It takes me a day and a half.)  "Hey mom!"  Robby yelled.  "Where's the chain saw?"  Oh no!  His next slave labor project (aka get mom to have a heart attack) was to cut down as many dead pine trees as possible.  And we have a gazillion.

Robby cut and I loaded the branches on the trailer.  He was making my heart weaker.  Every now and then he would yell. "Sh--!, F---!," or "Oh My God!  That was almost my finger!" 

He devised many heart stopping ways to cut down trees.  Like this.

And this.

And this!

While you're at it, why cut the tree up, when you can carry it to the burn pit?

Seeing that my ticker was still ticking, Robby insisted we go to town and buy a sledge hammer.  He was going to smash the many concrete monstrosities Doug wants gone around  here.  I envisioned flying concrete embedding themselves in my handsome son's body. 

While no pieces flew where they shouldn't have, Robby didn't make the pieces very small either.  He pushed the gigantic chunks to the burn pit.  Grunting and groaning and cussing all the way.  I was positive we would be making a trip to the ER for a hernia repair.  Or a heart replacement for me.   

At the end of the two weeks, I was still chugging along-barely.  Robby commented that he would bill me for his slave labor.  But, I know he was really thinking, "Damn!  My mother's going to be around until her 90's like the rest of her relatives."